


recent advancements in feeling

by coronagrapher



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral My Unit | Byleth, Light Angst, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Pining, Post-Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), also some minor sothis and manuela mentions but not enough to tag em, i love these two so much, self-doubting byleth pines for a dude who stares at rubble all day, since they get a little shafted in the BL route, this is more of a look into byleth's mental state than anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:56:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coronagrapher/pseuds/coronagrapher
Summary: You wake up to a ruined continent after a half-decade of sleeping. Now you're sick of sleeping and need to apologize to a certain someone. Also, that weird feeling in your chest won't go away, and you're pretty sure it's not from Annette's cooking.





	1. the apology

**Author's Note:**

> pls b gentle this is my first time posting on AO3 and i'm dummy. also i wuv dimileth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a one-shot but i might expand on this because i love these two so much. second-person pov; it's weird but i wanted to keep this as gender neutral as possible and i thought it'd be interesting to tackle?!  
also: i know the whole heartbeat situation with byleth makes literal heartache difficult to feel but just lemme have some fun ;_;  
also x2: been thinking a lot about yandere!dimitri so... i might do a part 2 with this. we shall see.  
EDIT: NO LONGER A ONESHOT BABEY YEEEAAAAHHHHH

There’s only one thing you regret more than letting Dad die, and that’s sleeping.

Sleeping. Sleeping for five whole years. What a twisted joke.

Sure, it was nice for a while — no thoughts, no emotions, no need. Sothis was with you then, and in between fleeting moments of consciousness, you two talked. Not about anything of substance, but that didn’t matter. Before the fall, it had been months since you last heard the girl’s voice, and you treasured it like you treasured Dad’s ring. (Even now, occupied by the war, you miss her, and you listen for her voice across the monastery, like a whistle on the wind.)

And she was always the mother you never had, wasn’t she? When she scolded you, finally telling you to wake up, you were obstinate. You hated getting your sleep interrupted. You only relented because you remembered, faintly, in the very depths of your memory, about a promise.

You didn’t break it. You couldn’t. You wandered upstream making a Sword of the Creator-shaped line in the mud, the dregs of slumber still clinging to you like ghosts. Someone so frail and tired, carrying a Relic — you should have been an easy target for thieves, but you were still the Ashen Demon despite your green hair and the burden of a progenitor god bearing down on your spirit. One blank stare and they’d halt, turn tail. You let them go. But someone else didn’t. You stepped over corpses ravaged by beastly wounds, carpeted with blood and intestines and brain matter. You wondered idly if the Empire let a Demonic Beast loose around here.

As you sojourned, you began doubting any of your students would return. Five years without you — no, they’d surely forgotten. You were never sure how important you were to them. But, to your gratitude, they did return.

Even him, the blonde-haired prince you'd gift flowers, spar with, brew chamomile tea for. Everyone knew you had a soft spot for Dimitri, your brightest pupil; it couldn’t be helped. His Highness and you got on like a house on fire during the school year. You tempered his passion and he coaxed your emotions out, emotions you didn’t know you were capable of having. Every smile you wore was celebrated by him, a new milestone. Dad’s death was met with grief and anger and you shared in your desires for vengeance. And when Edelgard was unmasked and she lead the attack on the monastery, when you lost sight of him near the tail-end of the battle, his manic bloodlust worried you more than anything else. There was this feeling, deep in your chest, of anxiety and responsibility and guilt and longing and a desire to protect him, to run your fingers through his hair and tell him everything would be okay, and back then you didn’t know what that feeling was.

And even now, you don't know what it is. Nobody ever told you.

The piles of corpses grew larger as you approached the steps of the monastery. It was impossible not to step on them.

When you saw Dimitri, you wished you’d woken up sooner and hated yourself for staying asleep so long. There was that same feeling in your chest, like a weightlessness, but it immediately dropped to your stomach and made it heavy to stand. You didn’t tell him what was on your mind after seeing his bloody and broken figure crumpled on the floor, since you doubted he was listening to you fully, but you wanted to howl it out like a wounded animal: _ I left you for far too long, and I’m so sorry. _ You wanted to inhale the musty, dry, blood-heavy air of the room and choke on it in sobs. You wanted to hold him and brew him some tea again, wipe that blood off his cheeks with your coat sleeve. It wouldn’t make any difference, and you knew as much, but by the Ten did you want to do everything for him.

Instead, silently, you followed him through the thieves’ den like a haunting specter and regrouped with the rest of the Lions. You negotiated with Gilbert in his stead and bonded with your old students. You needed to stay contained for the sake of your own sanity and the morale of the Kingdom’s remnants.

But you let yourself break down once in a while.

Before Dad died, you didn’t know you could cry. Here you were a second time, in your old room, with a dead-silent presence in the corner and a neatly folded bed to lay on and an untouched calendar layered with dust, the 20th of the Ethereal Moon circled over and over again. Flowers on the windowsill were now wilted sticks withered by five years’ worth of sunlight. Dimitri gave you those before you both left for the Holy Tomb. You smiled wide when your hands grazed his to grab that sparse bundle of twiggy stems. For a second, he looked at you as if he was facing the Goddess herself, in all her otherworldly splendor.

You remembered they were forget-me-nots, blue as his lurid gaze. Only half as beautiful, though.

* * *

Spring has nearly melted away the last of the rime. You're not sure if you're looking forward to the longer days and shorter nights. You don’t sleep like normal anymore. You’ve been taking fitful naps in increments, passing out almost anywhere: a random seat in the dining hall, the Blue Lions classroom, the quaint little dock that you fish at every Sunday afternoon, the cleaner parts of the stables where the hunting dogs rest. You’ve been jostled awake by random passersby, a disquieted Gilbert, a stray cat or three. By now, though, most at the monastery have grown accustomed to your sleeping habits and your penchant for wandering alone at odd hours. You’re their Professor, after all; you know what you’re doing, right?

You’re afraid of falling asleep now, deathly afraid of it. You have dreams-within-dreams of waking up to the ruins of a derelict monastery with everyone you know dead or gone. Sometimes you lucid dream and manage to conjure up Dimitri’s image and tell him the words you’ve been dying to say since you woke up by the riverbed. Sometimes you hug him. Sometimes he tells you what that feeling in your chest means when he’s around, and that he feels the same way, too.

Sometimes, in a fit of desperation, you searched fruitlessly for those herbs that Rhea provided to some students, stuff that could calm the nerves and help you sleep. Now you’re just enduring it. You have to make a martyr of yourself; it only feels right. But you can’t sleep in your own bed anymore after what's happened. Your quarters are where you keep your tea leaves and gifts and bouquets of flowers, all for Dimitri. You’ve been biding your time. Annette, may the Goddess bless her patient little soul, taught you one afternoon how to preserve the bouquets using magic. You come in a few times a day to add to the ever-growing pile and maintain the preservation spell. The greenhouse keeper scolded you a while back, telling you that growing flowers in there was a waste of resources, and you had to accept that, so you’ve been growing them yourself now. You water the pots every few days and prune them fastidiously. You always pluck a few stray that shoot between the cracks in the stonework, though.

Here you are, furtively snapping roses off of bushes and trading fresh-caught fish for chamomile, all for a man who barely speaks to you now. If you could hear Sothis, you’re certain she’d be calling you pathetic. But you’re fine with that. You’ll be alive and awake and pathetic as it gets for the rest of your life if it means Dimitri might talk to you again one day, might give you an earnest grin and tell you he's proud to be your student, might stop focusing on revenge and Edelgard. (Somehow, you're jealous of the fact he's fixated on her.)

Now it’s early evening on a Saturday. You’re woken up on a bench in the courtyard by buzzed monks poking at you with a tree branch, chuckling and stumbling away as soon as they realize you’re awake. You groan, try to fall back asleep, but the merriment from the dining hall keep you awake. The monastery residents try to have some fun during the weekend, congregating around dining tables for a night of revelry, which you can’t help but admire given the situation. Stores of watered-down beer and cuts of meat and stale pastries are gone within a night. You’re invited to join every time, yet you always decline. 

It never feels right for you to take part in festivities. Instead, you get up with a groan, dust yourself off, and head in the opposite direction. The crisp air of dusk lends itself to quiet walks like these. Flocks of birds circling the sky, parting with the deft movements of a pegasus rider, and the murmur of stray crickets reminds you that the monastery is again teeming with life. The cathedral now sits as a towering monument that invites you in with half-open doors. You liken it to the tenacity of your students: closed-off, bruised, fractured, but never broken. A smile plays at your lips, but it disappears once you realize you’re smiling. It never feels right for you to smile, either.

Your footsteps echoed in the cathedral corridors five years ago, but now those echoes disappear into the air. The gaping hole in the ceiling swallows the noise, the altar still buried by its stony debris. You see Dimitri’s stark blue form kneeling there in the last light of dusk, facing the rubble, head down. This is always where you find him. Every time your eyes fall upon him, that feeling in your chest rises up once more, twisting your lungs and taking the air from you. He steals your breath. You cannot fathom why.

He’s silent, as per usual, and leaves you unacknowledged. It stings to be spurned by him, but you’re thankful he’s breathing. For now, that’s all you can ask of him.

Blue petals are scattered to the floor by your shaky grasp. Bringing a bouquet was a whim you didn’t expect yourself to indulge, since you knew he would take one look at them and laugh in your face. You’re nervous as you approach him — that chest-tightening feeling worsens — your gaze roving around his figure, but he doesn’t even turn to meet you. You expected this. You take in a sharp breath of air.

“Dimitri.”

He is silent.

“I brought you flowers.”

His head turns, if slightly. There’s an aching that slithers up your head and down your limbs. You wonder if you should leave now or spill your feelings, feelings you can scarcely describe. Your breath hitches. Inwardly, you say _ fuck it_, and go for the latter.

“I came here to apologize. I disappeared on you during your time of need and I can't forgive myself for that. I’m never going to leave you again. I promise.”

That gets his attention. He rises with an exhale and turns to face you. You almost forgot how tall Dimitri is compared to you, his head still tilted downward to meet your gaze. His single blue eye, radiant, encircled by heavy shadows, is the same color as the flowers in your hands — but _ more._ His stare itself is hard to read; not expressionless, but expressing something you can’t quite parse. It makes you uneasy. It would be simple if he gave you the scornful, derisive glare you’ve grown accustomed to receiving, but instead you’re confronted by something entirely unfamiliar.

“Sorry. You don’t have to say anything, or take this, or accept my apology. I’ll leave you alone now.”

You turn to leave, but a sudden brush of armor against your bare skin startles you. He gingerly takes the flowers from your hands. You’re expecting him to crush them under his heel or throw them into the rubble, but he holds them with an unexpected gentleness, studying them before his attention returns to you.

“Forget-me-nots.” That’s the most he’s said to you in two weeks. You aren’t sure whether you’re happy or sad.

“Yeah,” you nod, your eyes moving from his hands to his lips to his eyes. That same feeling in your chest aches as if anew. With your hands now at your sides, you fiddle awkwardly with the hem of your coat. “I have the ones you gave me five years ago, though they wilted. I remember that those were much more pretty. You chose them with care.”

_ Why… did I say that. _You can feel your face lightly flush with embarrassment, one of the emotions he introduced you to during the academy days. (You first felt embarrassed after you forgot to bring your sword to the mock battle. He used to laugh about the incident when you two were alone: “You were red as a tomato, Professor!”) You rarely get like this, but around him, you always do, at least a little bit. It’s present, like how Sothis used to be present, but it’s far more frustrating than her peanut gallery commentary ever was. You don’t know if this is a valid feeling or not. This is your cue to leave.

“I should go. Good night, Dimitri.”

Your steps are calculated as you walk down the deserted aisle, between empty pews. You can’t show your weakness in front of him. You’re almost afraid he’ll sense it and tear you apart now that your back is turned. Or, worse, see right through you and realize the depths of your indecipherable feelings; you’re utterly terrified of getting mocked by him, getting scorned. If he knew how you were feeling right now, you’d get laughed out of the monastery by him, you're sure of it. You’re halfway out the door when he calls out to you. The flowers are still in his hand.

“Byleth.”

You turn your head, startled. He rarely called you Byleth during the academy days and hasn’t once since your reunion. None of this feels real. You wonder to yourself if you’re not just dreaming again.

“Thank you.”

Again, you wonder. You shake your head.

“No, Dimitri, I should be thanking you. You’re… the reason I woke up in the first place.”

You nearly regret saying that.

His mouth is open to respond, but before he can, you’re already gone in a flurry of black fabric and messy hair. A part of you is racked with guilt about leaving in such a hurry, but this feeling in your chest is so tight it might burst open, bloom out of you like a flower. Your eyes wander once you're outside, looking for something to settle on. You’re greeted by the brilliant indigo of a cloudless twilight, some stars beginning to reveal themselves. The distant conversations of drunk soldiers and the calls of birds travel in tandem across the length of the monastery. For now, all is peaceful. Your lips begin to tremble. You decide that you’re going to take another nap soon, in the library, and then do your rounds once it reaches midnight. Yet you can feel your legs growing weak and your ribcage twist. The air has suddenly turned bitter; it snaps at your watery eyes and burns your throat.

No, you can’t face anybody right now. The warmth of your skin is stung by cold tears pouring down your cheeks. This is the third time.


	2. the tribute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm BACK. i couldn't resist making a pt. 2 out of this bc dimileth gives me LIFE.  
been thinking a lot about a modern AU where byleth is an overworked TA for Garreg Mach College and sothis is byleth's annoying tulpa.  
anyways i hope u guys like this ;_; <3

Draped over a church pew, you were woken up by a chorus of monks reciting morning prayers. By the time you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, they‘d already concluded and scattered hastily across the monastery to perform their daily duties. You could see why once your vision was fully returned to you: Dimitri was skulking around, tucked away in a shadowy corner near that holy pile of rubble, muttering to himself with a strange smile curling at his lips. Always the same sight. Though he made your chest flutter each time you laid eyes on him, his madness stopped surprising you months ago.

Your body ached from sleeping on that hard wood, contorted unnaturally with heavy, bloodless limbs hanging over the stiff back. A groan, a huff, a few awkward movements, and you managed to orient yourself in a sitting position. Half of you was still pins and needles from your uneasy rest. You were pretty sure that this wasn’t where you fell asleep, but you couldn’t be certain. Such occurrences has been happening to you recently — you'd fall asleep in one place and wake up in another. Were you sleepwalking?

“So glad to see you're still alive, Professor. I was almost afraid you’d never wake up.” Manuela’s honeyed voice arrived before she did, the clack of several-inch heels against stone signaling her entry from the head of the cathedral. As your eyes met, you saw a certain lethargy in her gaze, or perhaps something more akin to fatigue. The war had taken its toll on her, as it did everyone. Stealing the life from students you once saved must have been a difficult contradiction to grapple with; you quietly sympathized. Still, she was beautiful, always groomed with care, a distinctly floral scent following her — lilacs, or maybe roses. Your conversations were one of the few comforts you had now that Dimitri was gone all but physically.

You nodded in acknowledgement of your fellow professor as she took a seat beside you, running her manicured nails along the edge of the pew with a discerning stare and a click of the tongue.

“I can’t imagine this is the best place to nap.” Her easygoing tone belied a hidden concern.

You shrugged, staring out towards the buried altar, Dimitri’s presence burning in your peripheral vision. It seemed like you could never ignore him completely, no matter how hard you tried. “It’s not the worst.”

“You’ve been dealing with insomnia, haven’t you?” She wasn't the first to know, but she was the first to admit it, and you admired her forthcomingness. She tilted her head in your direction, chestnut-brown eyes grazing the outlines of your profile. Though you didn't turn to see, you could tell that Manuela's face was contorted with a furrowed brow, perhaps born of worry; she was the mindful vodka aunt you never asked for but cherished all the same. You only wished you had the capacity to tell her how grateful you were. Language like that was never easy to spill from your tongue.

You nodded again in response, said little else. Easy silence enveloped the two of you. A nun practiced idly on the harpsichord as other clergy members filtered in and out, keeping their distance from the debris pile to avoid the Boar Prince. Still, the cathedral was largely empty. The Goddess was not with the believers much anymore. Or with you. You were not even sure if you believed in the first place.

“Manuela," you broke the silence, turning to face her. "I have a medical question.”

"Oh? Do you now?" A chuckle escaped her lips, more surprised than sardonic. "Well, go ahead and ask. Who knows? Maybe I'll have an answer."

You took in a deep breath. You'd never felt more stupid in your life.

"I've been having this strange feeling in my chest when I see a... certain person." Your gaze reached a delirious Dimitri as you finished that thought. It had always been easiest for you to describe your emotions as you felt them, after all. "It's like a weightlessness. Anticipation. Like when you're in battle and you see an enemy charge towards you... but it's lighter. It's warm and soft. It makes it hard for me to speak." You paused, eyes flitting over Manuela in search of an answer. "Do you think I'm sick?"

For a brief moment, she was unnaturally quiet, processing everything with a mouth slightly agape. Yet a loud guffaw suddenly escaped her lips, startling you. Mascara-stained tears were wiped away with unsteady hands, hands made nearly useless by laughter that shook Manuela to her very core. You blinked, your expression deadpan. It was apparent that your symptoms weren't medical in origin. "Oh, Goddess — is our dear Professor in love? Who's the lucky fellow?"

In love? Was that what it was? Love? You'd never felt it before, so you weren't sure, but what Manuela said sounded right to you. It made sense. Too much sense. The guilt, the protectiveness, the longing, the fear. That was all because of love.

You lowered your head. "...Dimitri." It felt odd to say his name aloud, but good. Like a burden being lifted.

"_Dimitri_?" Her whisper in repeat was much louder, traveling across the aisle. Passersby sent glances in their direction. "Him? All these years? You've kept it a secret for this long?"

You shook your head to protest. "That wasn't my intention. I just wasn't sure what I felt until I saw him the day I woke up. Before then, he was my student, and—"

"Professor," Manuela interrupted with a hushed tone, stealing furtive glances from potential eavesdroppers. "You never noticed how he looked at you?"

"What?"

"It was all the faculty talked about for a while. That boy was practically infatuated with you since you first stepped into the monastery."

"Is that..."

“He’s gone crazy now, of course, but I’ve seen him carrying you around while you’re dead asleep. I hadn't seen him snap at his own soldiers until he started doing that. They once asked him what he was doing with you and he hurled threats until they left you two alone." She took a look at him, leaned over in your direction. "_Strange_, right? A week ago, it started pouring, and he carried you bridal-style from the courtyard to your old classroom. Wait... don't tell me you didn’t know any of this?”

"I wasn't aware."

At this point, Manuela couldn't be surprised by your own obliviousness. Instead, she stopped to scrutinize your blank expression, her brows raised. "Do you need me to give you more examples?"

"That would be..."

A call for Manuela interrupted your train of thought. Hanneman was standing at the entrance, arms crossed, a severe expression marring his features. Even from a distance, you could tell he was displeased. Manuela heaved a sigh.

"Well, Professor, it appears Hanneman's decided to cut our little chat short." She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she rose to face him. "Do come by the infimary later, if you can. I would love to continue this discussion."

Trailing him, she departed, and as your eyes move from her to the front of the cathedral, you swore you caught Dimitri's icy stare drilling into you.

* * *

Later that day, you were on a solo supply run, navigating the dense and winding forest that separated Garreg Mach from a nearby village. The villagers had offered you some Mythril in exchange for wiping out a roving band of thieves, and you were more than able to secure the deal. The majority of your walk back was uneventful; you almost wondered if there was any need to bring the Sword of the Creator with you.

Then something struck you in the shoulder. A burning sensation raced down your left arm, the work of a well-shot arrow. Someone in the village was a rat.

You acted fast. Though you hadn't heard her voice in ages, Sothis briefly returned to you in the form of a Divine Pulse. You could see where the arrow originated as time unwound itself, from a cluster of trees up ahead at a meandering point in the path. If you squinted, you could barely make out the curvature of Imperial scout armor, almost indistinguishable from the underbrush. Time moved once again. You caught the arrow in your grasp.

As dozens more were loosened from bowstrings, some nicking your skin, you realized how sorely you were outnumbered. This wasn't worth it. You ran.

No, you sprinted, lungs burning, the hiss of arrows firing past your ears. You continued for what felt like hours without stopping until you reached the cathedral steps, bathing in the afternoon sun, the sun of a safe haven. Even as the gates closed behind you, far-flung shouts and curses escaped from enraged Imperial lips at the edge of the treeline, out for blood. Once warning shots were fired in response, they turned tail and fled.

The blacksmith gave you a concerned stare as you sauntered up to him, eyeing the pricks and wounds you suffered.

"Imperial ambush tried to corner me," you responded with your idiosyncratic detachment. Some arrows were still lodged in your armor and you pulled them out without much fanfare, scattering them onto the ground. "Not too many of them. Just wanted the Mythril, maybe. I think they ran off."

After your business there, you left quietly. If you were more discerning, you would have noticed a certain someone at the steps of the entrance hall beside Rodrigue and Gilbert, his single blue eye ringed with the shadows of revenge unfulfilled. Dimitri took heavy footfalls down to the market. Patrons and merchants alike gave him a wide berth as he knelt down in the center of the square.

He collected the arrows you discarded and crushed them in his hand, all at once.

* * *

You passed out in Dad's old quarters rereading his diary for the twentieth time. The visit with Manuela never happened; you were simply too exhausted. Sometimes, when you're on the cusp of falling asleep, you think you can hear Sothis speaking to you. Perhaps that why you've become an insomniac.

Before falling unconscious, you remember her calling you a fool. You couldn't disagree.

You‘re now awake in an unfamiliar bed. It takes you a moment to realize, your sight still bleary, that this is Dimitri's old room. It's bare and the only things of interest are the flower pots up against his windowsill. The decayed remnants of flowers you once gave him are still in them. You can't quite remember what they were; maybe roses, or carnations. (Now that you think about it, those are all flowers that symbolize love, aren't they? Manuela would have a field day with you.) One pot, however, is different: it has the forget-me-nots you gave him just a week ago.

And you're not alone.

Dimitri is crouched beside you, softly stroking your hair, mumbling something incoherent. Something about revenge, or ghosts, probably. But he's beautiful, as he's always been, and you grow nervous and warm. The rush of adrenaline from laying eyes on him immediately wakes you up, your lungs suddenly constricting from nervousness, your pulse thumping in your temples and wrists. You rise, as slowly as possible, and he moves his hand from your hair to your jawline. There's something wet that he traces on your cheek. The scent of rust. You can tell that it's blood.

Your eyes lock. He's smiling.

"You're safe here, Professor." His low, grizzled timbre is soft, almost comforting. "I've exterminated all the rats."

You nod. Wait, rats?

Your focus shifts. The smell hits you. There's another person in the corner: a dead Imperial soldier, lacerated with wounds so ghastly you're surprised he's still in one piece. The blood coating the floor, coating Dimitri's clothes, means that he is not the only victim. You wonder where the rest are.

"Dimitri, did you..."

His smile turns into a grin. Against the red staining his face, his teeth are ivory white. His canines glow in the thin evening light filtered through grimy glass.

"The dead deserve their tribute. But you do as well." He pauses, parting a lock of hair behind your ear. Your breath hitches; he has never been this close to you before. "You are the only one who deserves it."

There's an odd melancholy that permeates your nerves, though hearing him say that should make you happy. You shift your body into a sitting position and he follows on cue, sliding himself, furs and all, onto the cramped twin-sized bed, one hand cupping you face while the other rests almost demurely in his lap. That warmth in your chest, that sign of infatuation, it is more present than ever, and that terrifies you beyond measure. This intimacy, coming from someone so violent and unhinged, is foreign to you. How do you take it? How do you know he won't dig his nails into your chest, rip out your still and unbeating heart right then and there? And why do you like that idea so much, the idea of suffering for him? (You're suddenly reminded, during the Wyvern Moon five years back, when you came down with an illness and he visited you as soon as the sun rose.)

"Among all these sycophants and doubters and betrayers, in this sea of blood and sin, you are the only one who has understood my intent." He is still grinning, but his words are grimly resolute. "I told you I would use you down to the bone, just as I use these other fools... but, Professor, you are more than a vessel for my vengeance."

He almost sounds sad. His eye moves beyond you, to the blue flowers silhouetted against the twilight.

"No, you are my..."

He leaves that thought unfinished. For a while, all is quiet. You swear you can hear all the blood drain from the corpse, soaking into the floor.

"You killed them, didn't you?" The subject changes with your already-answered question. You had to. Though you know yourself as a stoic and a poor conversationalist, one who prefers the silence, this is a breed of it that makes you terribly uncomfortable.

"All of them." He looks to you, and his expression brightens. He is proud. "Every last one. And I would do it again, and again, and again, and again."

Each repetition brings him closer to you. The blood that stains him drips onto your face, a red rivulet going from your browline to your chin. It has the same texture as your tears.

"I swore I would kill for you many moons ago and that has not changed."

You remember when he told you that. At the time, you thought it was just an empty statement; back then, you didn't understand the concept of killing for another. All your life, you had only killed for yourself, for survival. To take life so readily at the behest of another, for their sake only — until you met him, it sounded so alien.

"And you would do the same," he leans in, his hot breath against your ear, "wouldn't you, my Byleth?"

You nod.

_Yeah_, you think to yourself, _I would_.


End file.
